the realm of the leaves

you live in a simple hut in a dark, timeless forest. the loamy soil and lush foliage hide it well, and you tread carefully to and fro, so as not to damage the earth around. you scavenge and plant and hunt under hood with bow and arrow. you never take more than you need and this pleases the old gods. your tidy hut smells of sage and smoked meat and fresh leather, and your horses graze calmly nearby. you bottle spices and pickle vegetables and dry mushrooms and store all these lush ingredients on shelves in neat rows. maybe you pass the time weaving, or smithing, or baking, or raising chickens. maybe you converse with the crows and the elk, or maybe you story-tell with lute music, or maybe you pour over musty tomes of old charms and herbal remedies. maybe you pray from sunup to sundown, dancing in the firelight and giving thanks to the spirits and faeries of the forest. maybe you are human, maybe not. you are alone but not lonely. you are an extension of the forest itself, in all its secrets and magic, and flora and fauna, and darkness and moonlight.